


not in lone splendour (oh, bright star)

by all_the_storm_left_was (glorious_ruins_and_remains)



Series: you will always be fond of me, i represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Dysphoria, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Riding, Semi-Public Sex, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Sex, can i put quotes around established in that last tag, cemetery sex, yes you've read that correctly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28977219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_ruins_and_remains/pseuds/all_the_storm_left_was
Summary: “Peter,” he cries, warningly, pleadingly, filthily, but a dangerous glint appears on the man’s eyes and Martin finds his mouth correcting himself with neither thought nor shame, “daddy.”Martin meets his father the same day he puts his mother into the ground.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Series: you will always be fond of me, i represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125464
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	not in lone splendour (oh, bright star)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: "Feminine" terms are used by Martin himself to describe his genitalia and Peter refers to him once using a feminine term. Neither of this bothers Martin.
> 
> Also, read the tags, please. If you find any of those triggering or even squickening, do us both a favour and leave quietly. For those that wish to stay, Happy reading!

_His mother's_ _epitaph_ _thus reads:_

_'Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—_

_Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night'._

  
  


His skin prickles with the cold, his nose filled by the sharp scent of newly crushed grass.

He shouldn't do this.

For a moment, his breath clouds his glasses and all he could see is the faint outline of the man shuddering above him. It's like looking at his reflection on the bathroom mirror fogged up by the hour he spent scrubbing at his skin with scalding water. He didn’t want to before but he sees it now, the same slope of the shoulders, shape of the face, the thickness of the hair. A body his but at the same time, not _his._

The thumb in his mouth tastes like smoke and Martin himself, nestled in the snug space atop his curled tongue. He sucks on it, like a babe to its mother's tit and feels shame and anger at his own wantonness.

They shouldn't be doing this.

A hand gripping his hips, a mouth sucking his tit, a cock sliding against the lips of his pussy. Martin has never felt the need to be fucked like this. Head next to the cold, hard headstone; back only protected from the freshly dug earth by the silken coat suit haphazardly stuffed beneath him before he’s being pinned to the ground by the larger, much larger man, _god_ , he never felt so empty and wanting. He pushes the man off his breasts, the obscene wet pop his lips makes as he disengages from Martin’s nipple echoing throughout the empty cemetery.

"Stop," he says as his hands pull the man up for a hungry, damned kiss.

"Stop," he sobs as his legs bracket tight around the hips writhing against his body.

"Stop," he begs as his mouth welcomes the man's tongue again and sucks on it to stop it from leaving him again.

_Nobody should be doing this._

It's been a long time since Martin's last but the cock that enters his cunt is larger and thicker than the ones he had, he feels the angry veins protruding around it and the impossible friction makes him keen, makes him scrabble for purchase on the man’s shoulder. The man leaves his mouth, leaves it a cavern of echoing lust, as he maps his way to Martin’s ear with a hot, thick tongue.

"Uh, uh," Martin moans, Martin cries, in time to the thrusts wrecking his body like a broken record, like a whore. 

“Do you like that,” comes the hot breath in his ear and Martin wants to strike him, to pull blood from that smirking face and watch it sour into another kind of expression. But his exposed breasts are rubbing against a hard, hairy chest, his nipples heavy wanton stones aching to be sucked. The man gyrated his hips in a way that had his cock hitting places inside Martin and Martin can only scream out in the dead air of the cemetery, " _Fuck, yes, fuck!"_

Martin is kissed, and it makes him feel so wanted that he chases those lips, mindless of his own taste on it.

"Just like your mother," the man says, smiles, against Martin's panting lips. A large hand cups the swell of Martin's belly softly before the fingers dig in hard, "should I fuck you senseless too, every morning, every evening, fuck you senseless until you're all loose and sloppy until my cum takes root and you spill out another child in my name?"

“ _Peter,_ ” he cries, warningly, pleadingly, _filthily_ , but a dangerous glint appears on the man’s eyes and Martin finds his mouth correcting himself with neither thought nor shame, “ _daddy.”_

  
  


_Martin meets his father the same day he puts his mother into the ground, the first words leaving his lips after decades of silence:_

_'And watching, with eternal lids apart,_

_Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite-'_

  
  


Martin used to dream about his father. Just the normal fantasies of a fatherless child, he supposes, if there was a normal standard for things like these. Of him coming back, of him taking Martin and his mother away from the dump they lived in, of Martin waking up one morning and finding him at the kitchen table drinking tea with his mother. In each dream scenario, his mother would be back to the soft woman he knew, that one that brushes his hair before sleep and, although with a name not his calls out to him with warm affection.

Alas, the dreams remain fantasies until each memory he has of his father dies a ghastly death and reappears as mere ghosts flickering at the corners of his life.

He has grown so used to living with those ghosts, he realises with clarity as sudden as the convulsing his walls made around his father's cock, he could no longer recognise the man even when he stepped in front of Martin.

  
  


_The first time they met, Peter Lukas shook his hand like a well-bred gentleman and the words flow, unbidden, into Martin's mind:_

_'The moving waters at their priestlike task_

_Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores'_

Martin's nose is buried in greying but still thick pubic hair, his throat stuffed full of cock still wet with Martin's own cum, his tongue playing its tip across the crease between the wound up balls filled with the same semen that had made him. 

_My siblings_ , he thinks, quite hysterically as Peter starts thrusting, intoxicating him with the lack of oxygen and the fullness in his mouth.

The hands holding his head in place are gentle but firm, blunt fingers massaging Martin's scalp as it tilts Martin's face up for their owner to look at him directly in the eyes.

Grey eyes like his, Martin remembers hearing Rosie comment how 'Mister Lukas looked a wee bit like Martin, don’t you think'. Come to think of it that was the last time he'd seen Rosie, wasn't it?

A thumb strokes his cheek, spreading tears and smut and the precum spilling from the cock in his mouth and dribbling out of his lips agape.

"I always wondered why Elias looked so smug whenever I come to visit his Institute," Peter says, quite conversationally even as his hips moved faster, the underside of his cock scraping against Martin's tongue, "always asked about how my daughter was, if I had any plans of fathering another child. I thought it was just a weird fetish of his but when _I saw you-"_

Peter comes and Martin watches his eyes roll back, taking a perverse sort of pride at how quickly he climaxed. As if it were a testament of Martin's skills and not of the man's age. Instinctively, he swallows, his tongue catching a drop that escapes through the corner of his lips.

His father smiles down at him, hands fluttering down from Martin's head to his shoulders, gently urging him to lie down on the moist grass beneath them. Martin lets Peter manhandle him, only shivering a little when his naked body hits the soft earth. Only the sorry, tattered remains of his binder pulled down at his waist protects him from the wet grass. Martin feels his juices flow out excitedly at this realisation. 

Lips drop down on his, expelling cold breath into his colder mouth. 

The man kisses his way down Martin’s chest, kissing the undersides of his breasts and sucking large bruises near his rock hard nipples. His beard tickles Martin’s skin and Martin has to bite his own wrist to contain the high pitched moans warbling out of him. Peter trails down further, blowing kisses to the soft tufts of hair swirling below Martin’s navel.

“ _Don’t,”_ Martin hisses, fingers taking a fistful of Peter’s hair harshly, “ _stop._ ”

“Hmm?” Peter asks, spreading Martin’s legs and hooking them over his shoulders. He settles between Martin’s thighs as if he belongs there, as if he owns the place, the grin on his face is so infuriating, “ _don’t stop?”_

“ _No_ ,” Martin says, he wails, as a thumb traces his quivering slit. He’s so wet, still so wet with their previous releases and beginning to leak again with new arousal. 

“ _This is wrong,”_ this is dirty, this is done by deranged people. 

“It is,” Peter agrees, parting the slobbering lips and blowing cool air to it. Martin cries, mewls, his thighs pressing against his father’s ears and his fingers pushing his head _down._

A large hand crawls up, squeezing one of his breasts; a thumb flicking his taut nipple. 

“ _Don’t, stop, don’t, don’t, don’tstopstopdon’tstopdon’tstop-’_

“This is so very wrong, Martin,” Peter repeats as if he were remarking upon the weather and not lowering his head to Martin’s shaking mound, _“but weren’t you the one that pulled me in first?”_

Martin’s back arches at the touch, lips upon his lower lips, a large tongue opening his slit, a hard suck that has his vision whiting out. He didn’t even feel his head hitting the cold, hard marble next to it, one that is engraved with words Martin himself picked out.

  
  


_Here lies a memory:_

_'Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask_

_Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—'_

  
  


Martin was young, his father gently bouncing him on one knee as they read a book of Keats poetry, his mother settled next to them crocheting him a bright green dress.

He was too young to understand what his father's mouth was uttering, to realise what his mother's hands were making but he was old enough to remember.

He remembers the sweet but leafy scent of the tea his parents were drinking, the feel of the inked words on the old paper beneath his fingers, the taste of the biscuit his father fed him, the sense of utter safety and warmth. Home, small as it was.

  
  


_Food for a mind that cannot understand, not until years later:_

_'No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,_

_Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast'_

  
  


Peter leans back on his arms, the muscles on his chest and forearms rippling and catching the gaze of Martin's hungry eyes. Martin's mouth waters, his eyes brimming with hot, shameful tears.

"Come, darling," the man croons as if he were suggesting Martin to make a cup of tea, "sit on your father's lap."

The angle of his entrance and gravity work together, Peter's cock reaching new places in Martin as he drops down fully. Martin's ass hits Peter's thighs with a wet slap, both their saliva and sweat and previous releases mixing and pooling between them in a bitter smelling tang. 

Martin trembles upon his seat of thighs and cock, the wind hissing a laugh in his ears and biting his nipples into pebbles ready to be loved again by a hungry mouth. He feels ashamed, he should feel ashamed, he _wants_ to feel ashamed. He just buried his mother, just found out the new eldritch boss he's been having an illicit affair with is his father, and they're currently fucking in the cemetery next to his mother's headstone. Take your pick.

The fog rolls across his bare skin like tongues of searing cold.

But he just feels empty, the same way he's been feeling since he watched that beloved body lay still on a sterile white hospital bed, nothing but his brain tick ticking away with life. Or maybe, maybe even before that. Martin is becoming aware that he has a habit of trying to fill the void inside him with people and the notions of connecting with them. 

His hips make a gyrating movement, one that has both of them moaning out. Two large hands grip his hips, moving him up the rigid cock then down again the full length, up then down, up then down, up-down, up-down. Teeth graze collarbone before sliding down to a quickening nipple. Up-down, _up-down, updownupdownupdown-_

His arms squeezing around a thick neck, his legs pumping up and down a thick cock, he doesn't know for how long but he hears himself screaming his release. Peter continues pumping his own hips away, one hand reaching up to gently support Martin's neck as the other continues bruisingly gripping his hips. He makes one last suck, one last lick at the abused nipple. Martin glances down and no longer recognises the wanton thing, the violently red nub that seems as if it elongated twice its normal length. He watches Peter rub his bearded cheek on it, watches it swell and fatten and-  
  


“You don’t know how lovely you are to me, how deliciously _lonely_ you've been made just for me,” Peter murmurs as he fucks Martin through the orgasm, "I told you we'd make an excellent team, Martin. We'll _make_ so many _great things-"_

  
  


_His father's voice was gentle but firm, as if he were making a promise to Martin as he softly strokes his hair:_

_'To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,_

_Awake for ever in a sweet unrest'_

  
  


“Did you know,” Martin asks, limbs still quivering with his orgasm. The skies above them are a dark stormy grey, the kind where you could no longer tell if it’s still day or night already. He feels hot, skin covered with sweat and the moist from the grass and other things. Peter’s coat, their makeshift bed that only supports their torsos, is uncomfortably warm and sticky against him.

Martin doesn’t even know where his own clothes are, let alone the damned record the care home gave him and he frantically stuffed in his pockets. A certain bitterness swells inside him. Isn’t that just like his mother? For years, he had asked about his father and she never answered. Not a name, an age, or even a nationality passed her lips. And yet to a transactional form, she gives it all. Not a personal letter, not even a note, but a goddamn form. She probably didn’t think Martin would get his hands on it.

Was she planning to leave without telling Martin anything at all? 

Martin bites his lips. Peter stirs from his sated half-slumber, head raising like a leviathan from the crook of Martin’s shoulder and neck.

“Know what?” 

Martin’s short nails bite into the flesh of the thick arm wrapped around his waist, “When you first took me into the Lonely and fucked me on those grey sands, did you know then?”

Peter hums against his neck, his thumb drawing lazy circles on Martin’s sides, “know what?”

Martin wants to hiss at him, to rake his nails and split his skin open. But the fog is cold and Martin is tired, he slumps back against the man beside him. He laughs softly in a voice without any trace of laughter at all, “that you were fucking your own child, cumming inside a body you made.”

Peter drops a kiss on his forehead, the length of his whole body melding to the curves of Martin’s own. 

What a wretched, lonely creature they make together.

Martin feels Peter’s lips curl against his skin.

“ _Does it matter?_ ”

  
  


_He whispers into his ears a long forgotten dream:_

_'Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,_

_And so live ever—or else swoon to death.'_


End file.
